Regular Life

(NOTE: If you wish to continue reading “Wall,” then you’re in luck. I posted the next installment over at A Storied Man. It is not quite finished yet, but I think we’re getting close.)

——–

In a belated note about Mother’s Day, I have this to say: people who live about 30 miles north of Dallas must really love their mothers. Either that, or an inordinate number of people here eat out on Sunday morning.

The night before Mother’s Day, Shannon and I went out with friends, and paid a relative stranger (with high marks from friends) to babysit Ben. It was a good time for all. After Shannon returned from taking the babysitter home, it looked like we were on a roll for a good Mother’s Day.

Our plan was not complicated.

I would get up and spend a couple hours with Ben, as usual on weekend days, and start making pancakes about 10 minutes before waking Shannon. I have done the latter on many Sundays since last year, when I bought Shannon an electric griddle for Mother’s Day. I swear, I really thought she wanted one, and with much trepidation I admit it was a great deal. Regardless of her puzzlement when she opened it, the good news is she has not spent even a minute cooking on it.

This year, I was not going to wait until the last minute, and I certainly was not going to buy her anything that could be loosely construed as a kitchen implement, lest said tool be used to slap me upside my stupid head. So, I just came out and asked what she wanted. “Stone to border the front yard landscaping,” she said, but not as succinctly and after a few trips to scope out what she liked in the neighborhood.

After the delicious pancakes (I stir boxed batter and water together with the best of them), we would hang around a bit, and then go out for a picnic lunch.

Before I started cooking, I went to wake Shannon for her first snooze. She said that she did not feel like going for a picnic in 90-degree weather, and that she would like to go out for brunch. I was glad for that. Although I like watching Shannon and Ben enjoy my flapjacks, I ingest them merely for the camaraderie.

(flapjacks flapjacks flapjacks)

We rushed around readying ourselves and left at 11:15 for a restaurant called Mimi’s Cafe.

Growing up, I did not attend a megachurch. In fact, with an average attendance of about 64, it was decidedly micro. We had one Sunday morning service, starting at about 11 and ending at about noon — unless one was conscientious enough to attend Sunday School before the congregation convened. We were not.

Here in the U.S., most Christian churches in a large metro area have a similar structure on Sunday morning. I’m sure I don’t have to tell any of you that the aforementioned religion is huge in these parts. I thought we were doing great. We would beat the church crowd.

As we drove within view of Mimi’s parking lot, it became painfully clear that church had been cancelled that day. Every spot was filled, and at least 10 people waited outside the restaurant’s double doors.

Of course, that was not true. Churches had met as usual. Unfortunately, in an area this highly populated, they do so one or two times prior to 11 to make sure all the members and guests have a shot at hearing the day’s sermon, dynamic choir performance, or moving solo.

Droves of people already were out of church and, their spirits satiated, they were ready to chow down on some quality grub. I have to mention here that while I was growing up we often went to another place called “Mimi’s” for good food. That was the name we called my paternal grandmother.

When I asked the hostess how long, she said the wait was two hours. Shannon had not eaten anything all day, and Ben and I soon would be hungry for lunch. Confident that would be unacceptable to my better half, I asked the lady to kindly scratch my name off the list. Next.

At a place called “Two Rows,” the wait was 45 minutes. I got Shannon’s opinion. Next.

At International House of Pancakes (IHOP), the wait was 30-35 minutes. I got one of their blinking, vibrating, drink coaster pagers, and proceeded to the minivan to tell Shannon the news. Too long. I gave back the fun toy and again asked the nice lady to exclude us from the wait. Next.

Adacent to IHOP? Bennigan’s. I walked over there. The hostess informed me that they served no breakfast food, but that she had a “secret table” for immediate seating. Frantic that we might somehow lose the table, I race-walked back to the IHOP parking lot and got Shannon and Ben. I always seem to remember too late that people inside restaurants during sun-up can see everything outside very clearly. At least that time I had not broken into a full run. People tend to get nervous, or just point and laugh, when they see a grown man run outside organized sports.

Long story short (too late, I know), we got our appetizer very quickly, and then the veracity of the descriptor “secret” was made achingly clear. Our meal arrived more than an hour after we ordered it, and our server checked on us maybe twice. The consolation chips and salsa occupied Ben, who had grown quite fussy by that point.

The wait at Two Rows (the second place we tried) looked pretty good right about then.

I will not go into the birthday party we attended later that day. Hey, the kid can’t help that his birthday is on May 14, and that just happened to be Mother’s Day this year. Ben did not want to share toys and seemed contrary just for the sake of it. Shannon got stressed out and we left much sooner than we had hoped.

Part of Shannon’s stress came from a lack of communication between us. A stay-at-home mother who is very active in a Mom’s group, she takes Ben to a lot of kid-parent gatherings. She is accustomed to keeping half of her brain tuned to Ben, half to the other mothers. I, on the other hand, an infrequent attendee of any large social gathering, much less one including Ben, tend to get caught up in my conversations. So, by time I know anything’s wrong, it’s already escalated to the point that Shannon’s saying, “No, Ben, stop it!” Then, to me after we’ve taken Ben out of the latest time-out, “Mark, can you please watch your son? I do it all week.” She did not play the Mother’s Day card, but certainly had the right.

Her gift has yet to be purchased and installed. More on that when it happens.

Over all, besides the card and flowers from Ben and me, it was a crappy Mother’s Day for Shannon. I can’t remember her first one, but the last two have been less than stellar. She deserves better.

Comments RSS